Getting it Wrong
by natalieashe
Summary: Because Sherlock can't always have it go his way Bit OOC but can't get it quite right - not too much hurt Slight language


**A/N: Not entirely happy with this one but doesn't get better with rewrites. Posting it anyway.**

John pulled off his socks and leaned back in his chair at 221b, wriggling his bare toes. A steaming mug of tea sat on the table beside his elbow alongside the evening paper, both waiting for him to begin their Saturday evening ritual. John would scan the news looking for mysteries to keep Sherlock occupied when no cases were forthcoming from the Yard, and Sherlock would dismiss ninety percent of them as beneath his notice. Both would drink enough tea to sink a battleship and idly discuss their time apart. It was comfortable, familiar. John had a deep sense of contentment, here in his second home with his closest friend that he never quite achieved anywhere else. The three weeks since his daughter's birth had been a whirlwind of emotions so he was glad to finally sit quietly for a few hours and not think about nappies, burping and breast milk.

His daughter was beautiful - tiny, perfect, blonde and blue eyed. Unfortunately for her parents she seemed to have adopted the more annoying characteristics of her 'uncle', the worst of which seemed to be a complete lack of need or desire for sleep at night. He was knackered, Mary was exhausted and as a consequence they were both ratty and argumentative over the smallest things. A few hours apart was probably what they needed.

Sherlock sat on the floor listlessly poking at the fire trying to coax it back to life. His own mug steamed on the rug next to him beside an untouched plate of Mrs. Hudson's biscuits. Finally, with a couple of fiercer jabs of the poker, the coals shifted in a shower of sparks and a few hopeful flames flickered.

"You ok?" Asked John softly to Sherlock's curved back.

"Fine," he muttered.

"What's up?"

"I said I'm _fine_!"

"I heard you. In your case that could mean anything from anger to boredom to anxiety. It never means you're _actually_ fine."

The curly-haired man scowled at his friend over his shoulder, face shrouded in deep shadow, only the sharp edges of his features burnished gold from the weak firelight.

"I solved three cases this week."

"Well, that's good. Isn't it?"

"The most complex barely rated a four."

He turned back to the fire, poking aimlessly at the embers. John sighed. He had the distinct feeling his detective was sulking.

"Is this because I haven't been around? It's been a bit difficult just to pop in, what with the baby and all."

"I've been busy. Barely noticed your absence."

A particularly vicious stab evidenced the lie. John closed his eyes, just for a moment. He was so tired it was a real effort to open them again. Once he did he realised he must have dropped off for a few minutes because Sherlock had abandoned his assault on the fire and was now leaning against his chair by John's outstretched legs, gazing at him with an uncharacteristically soft expression. Without thinking he reached out a finger and brushed a curl from Sherlock's forehead.

"Why are you here? You're the most beautiful man on the planet and here you are, shut away on a Saturday night with a miserable old ex-army doctor. One who can't even stay awake and enjoy your company. You should be out living your life."

"I live it the way I choose. I'm not unhappy John."

"Really? Because tonight you seem some place distant. I think you need someone in your life to take care of you. You're so damn fragile."

Sherlock's expression hardened and he turned away again, watching the pictures in the flames. John should know better than to express any kind of sentiment but there'd been a sadness in Sherlock's eyes that had moved him to speak unwisely. He worried constantly about this incredible man.

"Have you eaten today? And when did you last sleep?"

"Stop fussing John. I ate dinner with Lestrade."

"Dinner with Greg? _Proper_ dinner?"

"We split a burger from a stand. He insisted I ate."

"Not exactly a substantial meal but I'm glad he's keeping an eye on you. He must be grateful for the help - three cases in a week. You must be seeing a lot of him."

Sherlock stilled, his mug part way to his mouth.

"I... No... No more than necessary. The work is all there is... All the work..."

The words tumbled forth, jumbled with nervous pauses and ending in a long swallow of tea. It was rare to witness Sherlock so completely thrown by such an innocuous comment. The line of his shoulder and neck was tense against the arm of John's chair. He shuddered slightly under the light touch of John's fingers ghosting over the top of his head.

"Hey, it's ok. It's all good."

John gently trailed his fingers across the top of Sherlock's curls, repeating the motion over and over until his fingers were softly combing his hair back from his face. He couldn't remember when he'd discovered this action that calmed and relaxed his friend so effectively, but it had been some time since he'd employed it. John was troubled by something in Sherlock's mood he couldn't quite put his finger on.

"I have a daughter who will one day insist I braid her hair and I have no idea how to do it. I should practice on you. You hair is growing so long, you desperately need a cut."

"I could teach you how to braid. Direct you. It's probably not long enough but we could try?"

John chuckled at this unexpected enthusiasm for a ridiculous and pointless task. Sherlock was already settling in front of him, cross-legged after nudging John's legs out of the way. He leaned forward and swept his mass of too-long curls together, forming them into a tiny messy pony tail between his thumb and forefinger. Tendrils escaped all over in a thin springy halo that looked both alien and adorable. He let it all fall around his face again, leaning heavily against the doctor's knees.

"It might work."

John sipped his tea puzzling over Sherlock's behaviour. The detective nibbled absently on a biscuit, fingers flickering over his phone screen while he waited for John to finish. In fact Sherlock had been fiddling with his phone - picking it up, putting it down, checking for messages? - every few minutes since John's arrival. Every time he dropped it onto the rug beside him he sighed.

"Waiting for something?"

"What?" He looked startled, surreptitiously nudging his phone beneath his thigh. "Oh, whenever you're ready."

"Ok, how do I start?"

"Gather up my fringe from temple to temple, sliding your thumbs under the section of hair."

"Like this?"

Sherlock raised his hand and verified John's attempt by touch.

"Good. Now divide that section of hair into three equal parts."

"Tricky! It might be easier with straight hair. Yours is so unruly."

John dropped most of the hair and had to begin again, but eventually he had three roughly equal strands.

"That was the easy bit. Now, cross the right strand over the centre, then the left over the centre, which was formerly the right."

"Um... ok…"

"Then before you cross the right strand over the centre again, pick up a bit more hair from that side."

"Like this?"

John was all fingers and thumbs, wondering how he was supposed to hang on to the hair he'd already braided while gathering up yet more. He somehow managed to slide his thumb beneath another inch-wide strip of hair and cross it over, tangling his own fingers in the process.

"This is impossible! How do women make it look so easy?"

"Practice. Watch, like this."

Sherlock loosened John's attempt and began again, expertly weaving his own hair from left to right into an untidy, but pretty amazing looking braid from his forehead to the nape of his neck. He held the loose ends there and turned to John with a triumphant grin.

"Pretty easy once you think it through. Needs a bit of practice but by the time your daughter actually has some hair long enough to braid you might be quite good. My head is at your service, should you need it."

He smiled then, the truly warm and genuine smile that was reserved only for John, and maybe a few close friends. The scraped back hair made him look younger and more vulnerable, and John's worries surfaced again.

"I think I like your hair down. It's far too severe like that."

Sherlock unwound the braid, shaking his fingers through his long shaggy hair. It fell across his brow, down past his eyes. Much too long, thought John. Is he neglecting himself? Mycroft would normally have stepped in long before now if so. Unless he thinks I'm still watching out for him? All that dark hair hid those incredible green-gold eyes. He missed seeing them watching him, weighing him up. Once more he pushed the heavy curls away from Sherlock's brow, exposing those stunning eyes.

"Hey you. What's going on Sherlock? I'm sorry I've not been around, but I'll try harder ok? I'll try to make more time for you but you're worrying me. What can I do to make it right?"

To John's horror Sherlock suddenly looked stricken.

"You can't. I misread a situation terribly… And now I've made an utter fool of myself…" he snapped, turning away from John's concerned stare.

"Start at the beginning?"

He shuffled to the edge of his chair then lowered himself to the floor, arm twining round his friend in a one armed hug that Sherlock didn't rebuff.

"He… I… we'd cracked the case, and we were laughing, and…"

"Ok, slow down a little. Who's 'we'?"

"Greg and I"

"Greg was there? Greg Lestrade?"

Sherlock nodded, shivering slightly in spite of the heat of the fire. John hugged his friend tightly, concerned that Sherlock was allowing anything as intimate as a hug. Greg was a decent man, their friend. He couldn't possibly be the cause of such anxiety in the detective surely? But whatever was bothering Sherlock, it had him all cut up in a way John had never witnessed before. An upset Sherlock was like a physical pain in his own chest. If Greg had done anything to hurt Sherlock he'd kill him, friend or no! He steeled himself to ask a bitter question that burned in his gut.

"Sherlock, did something happen with Greg? Did he do something to hurt you?"

"What? No!"

His vehemence was a relief. John let out a breath, and pulled Sherlock to lean against his shoulder.

"Ok. Tell me? Because I really can't imagine what would get you in this state if it wasn't serious."

"I… We left the crime scene, and Greg got a burger. I wasn't hungry but he went on and on about eating, so I gave in and took a bite when he offered. We were laughing, joking around… Just walking… He grabbed my hand to get my attention and I thought he... I don't know..."

He hid behind his hair refusing to make eye contact and John's heart fractured a little more, fear still lurking in his core that something bad had occurred.

"Sherlock, I need to know what happened. I won't judge, promise. Right now I'm thinking something _really_ bad. Am I justified?"

"NO! It was me! Greg didn't… I thought things were going... Oh god, I dragged him into an alley and kissed him!"

John choked, staring at the detective who still couldn't look at him. His lips twitched into a smirk, that he scolded himself was highly inappropriate.

"You what? Sorry. Sorry… what did he do?"

"He pushed me away and left… he just walked away and now I think I've ruined _everything! _I tried to call to explain but he won't answer."

John hugged the poor sagging detective tight, his own relief tangible. He imagined this was what it would be like to be the mother of a teenage daughter, rather than the best friend of a thirty-something socially-inept and sexually-inexperienced highly intelligent sociopath who suddenly realized he could experience feelings – attraction – for a friend. Slight complication that the friend in question was also a respected work-colleague and straight, as far as John knew.

"Oh dear, I don't know what to say. Maybe he was just surprised. If he didn't know you had feelings for him then suddenly kissing him would be a bit of a shock I expect. The whole guy/girl relationship thing can be startling enough, but when it's guy/guy… I guess if it's not your thing then it might be a bit…"

John searched for a word but couldn't find anything reassuring. 'Upsetting', 'intimidating' or 'shocking' all seemed to fit but not at all comforting to a distraught grown man who firmly believed he'd ruined not only a close friendship, but also a solid working relationship.

"Look, Greg will be fine about it, I'm sure. How about I text him and see if I can get him to talk to you? Maybe he's avoiding you because he really just doesn't know what to say. He might be trying to spare your feelings, or he may even be interested and not know what to do about it. He's been married for god knows how many years and is only recently single again."

"But if he's disgusted…"

"Sherlock, I don't imagine for a minute he'd be disgusted. Perhaps not interested, but that's the risk any of us take when we choose to flirt with someone. Being shot down in flames is part of dating, unfortunately. It'd be great if everyone we ever felt attracted to reciprocated, but more often than not, that's simply not the case. Rejection is part of love."

"I wanted to share the buzz of solving the case with someone else who understood that high! You and I used to do that… I missed it!"

"I miss that too, believe it or not. General Practice doesn't really compare with chasing villains. Um… I never wanted to kiss you. I love you, but I have never wanted to kiss you even when we solved a particularly tricky crime. Is that something you wanted?"

"No."

"Ok, so what you want from Greg is different to us? I'm going to text him ok? Then we're going to go get some sleep."

"You're staying over?"

"If it's not a problem? We have a whole-night sitter. Mary is with Molly, I'm with you. If you want me to stay, I'm happy to."

"Ok"

He sounded meek and co-operative, not at all the Sherlock John was used to. He closed his eyes, trying to compose a message to Lestrade that would ask the right question to get the answer Sherlock needed. He hated seeing him so vulnerable – some people should be protected from the real world. The detective had disappeared into the bathroom to prepare for bed so John carefully typed out a text message to the Scotland Yard Detective Inspector.

_**You and Sherlock need to talk. If you don't feel the same, please let him down gently. **_

A response came almost instantly. Checking Sherlock was still busy in the bathroom he read it.

_Are you with him now?_

_**Yes**_

_I don't know what to say to him. I don't want to hurt his feelings._

_**So you don't feel the same?**_

_No. I'm downstairs. Too chicken to come up._

_**Come on Greg, man up! He's your friend. He deserves honesty even if it's not what he wants to hear.**_

A few moments later John heard footsteps on the stairs and a soft knock on the door. He opened it to find Lestrade standing there still dressed for work in his suit and overcoat. He gave the doctor a fleeting smile and stepped awkwardly into the sitting room.

"Not been home?"

Greg shook his head, fiddling with his phone in his pocket. "Went to the pub, then just walked around a bit. Eventually found myself here... Mrs. Hudson found me on the doorstep an hour ago so I blagged a cup of tea."

"He's been calling you."

"Eleven missed calls."

"_Christ_ Greg, and you didn't think maybe you should answer if he wanted to talk that badly? This is Sherlock! The man who doesn't _do_ emotion! It's got to be pretty important if he steps that far out of his comfort zone."

"I know, I'm sorry."

"It's not me you need to apologize to."

The DI nodded looking ashamed of himself. He heard the shower stop and swallowed nervously, glancing from the bathroom door to John. John crossed his arms leaning against the door to the flat, an unsubtle way of telling Greg he wasn't leaving just yet.

"I'll wait upstairs unless Sherlock wants me to leave."

"Ok. Are you mad at me?"

He was, but he knew it was unfair. For a fleeting selfish moment while Sherlock had been telling him what happened he thought he had found someone he could trust to care for Sherlock when he wasn't around, and he was unreasonably angry that Greg didn't want to rush to take on that responsibility. He sighed.

"No. Not unless you deliberately led him on."

"Are you serious? It's not... That's not my... Oh for fucks sake! Just no!"

"Ok, ok. I believe you, but he's pretty upset and embarrassed I think."

The bathroom door opened in a cloud of steam and Lestrade actually took a step back as the gangly detective emerged with only a towel wrapped around his narrow hips. His dark curls hung heavily over his face appearing even longer when damp. He stopped short when he noticed the silver-haired man standing in his sitting room then dashed for the security of his bedroom slamming the door behind him.

"You, stay there!" John commanded.

He followed Sherlock, rapping on the door and entering without waiting for an invitation. Sherlock was naked, a fact that John barely registered, shoving his pale legs aggressively into cotton pajama trousers. He grabbed a t-shirt from the floor and yanked it over his head then sank down onto the bed stubbornly facing away from the door where John stood. His hair dripped, turning the shoulders of his t-shirt a darker grey.

"Why is he here?"

"To talk."

"I don't want to," Sherlock whined. "It's mortifying!"

"Oh for goodness sake. You're not the first man to get it wrong. Do you want to continue working with Greg at the Yard?"

"Yes!"

"Then you're both going to have to discuss it and get over it!"

Sherlock bristled. "Just 'get over it'?"

"In time. If you actually _have_ a crush on him, and it's not just some consequence of spending more than average time with him when you're feeling a bit low."

"I do _not_ have a crush! Soppy teenagers get crushes. This is... Not!"

"Whatever. You go out there and talk. I'll go out. Or be upstairs?"

"Upstairs, please."

The 'please' was unexpected; yet another indication that this situation had totally thrown the normally composed detective way out of sorts. John rounded the bed and pulled him to his feet, propelling him out of the bedroom with a firm hand in the small of his back. Once the two men were uncomfortably face to face he all but clicked his heels in a military salute and gave the order for them to begin, marching up the stairs and closing the door behind him.

Lestrade cleared his throat and thrust out his hand which Sherlock took in an awkward shake.

"Sorry for being a dick! It was... Wasn't..."

He glanced down at their still clasped hands, the handshake seeming more ridiculous the longer they held on. He raised his free hand and squeezed Sherlock's shoulder, gently extricating his fingers from the other's grasp. One piercing eye - icy-blue and gold in the dim light - peered out from the inky wet curls. Greg didn't believe he'd ever seen the detective look so terrified. Sherlock's mouth compressed into a thin line; he dropped his extended hand and abruptly wheeled away to the kitchen, opening and closing cupboards, not finding what he was seeking. Greg followed, cautiously touching his shoulder, jumping when the other man flinched at his touch.

"Sit" he said softly. "I'll make tea."

Sherlock sat, propping his elbows on the table and hiding his face in his hands. He didn't look up even when Greg set a mug in front of him and pulled out the opposite chair. He waited silently for Sherlock to acknowledge him.

"You must think this is hilarious. The great detective getting something so spectacularly wrong."

"Not hilarious. Not funny at all."

"The Yard will live off this for decades."

"Only if you plan on telling them. It wasn't a moment I planned to share with anyone else."

Sherlock looked up then, meeting the older man's eyes. Greg was clearly nervous too but he didn't look furious _or_ upset.

"I don't understand. I thought this would be something you would use to embarrass me at every opportunity, the more public my humiliation, the better."

"Why the hell would I do that?"

"I've ridiculed you frequently over the years. I thought you may want to get your own back."

Greg did look angry now but was trying to hide it behind frequent sips of too-hot tea. He didn't speak for a few minutes, scowling at a point on the wall behind Sherlock's bowed head. Eventually he decided to share what he was thinking in short sharp sentences.

"You _are_ an idiot Sherlock. I though you and I were friends now? Past the worst of trying to show each other up. We work well together, don't we? So why would I ruin that?"

"Because you could. I don't often care what people think of me, but in this case I find I care a great deal. I care what _you_ think of me because I like you more than I should."

"All the more reason I wouldn't use it against you. What you and I do - it's ribbing in the context of work - relates to our professional lives. Occasionally it bites when you call me thick, but generally its banter. I would never take something so personal and use it to hurt you. Ever! Do you understand?"

Sherlock just looked at him, that one-eyed steady gaze laced with insecurity that was actually quite endearing.

"I thought it would mean the end of us working together. Make it difficult for you."

"Why? Because someone I work with sees more than just the job and actually finds me attractive? It threw me at first I'll admit, you being a bloke, but..."

"But...?"

Greg was blushing furiously, determined to get his brain engaged before he allowed his mouth to run away and make Sherlock feel worse.

"Sherlock, I am very flattered that someone as intelligent and gorgeous as you is interested in me. But, I'm not attracted to men. Not even you."

Sherlock gave the smallest smile, a mere twitch of his lips.

"So you think I'm gorgeous?"

Lestrade grinned and flicked the detective on the forehead. He winked, and Sherlock's cheeks flushed.

"Should've known you'd focus on that. I'll deny I ever said it to my dying breath! So, do you still want to work with me? Even if I won't sneak off down alleys with you for a snog?"

"Oh god, I'm still horrified. Sorry. Sorry I did that."

"Don't be. I've not snogged many people in my life but I reckon you make my top five." he chuckled. "Was that your first kiss?"

"Apart from parents, aged aunts and being forced to kiss Mycroft when were children, yes."

"You poor bastard. First kiss and you choose me? It's me who should be apologising. I almost feel like we should do it again to honour the moment properly!"

"Thanks for not making a big deal of it." Sherlock said sarcastically but he was smiling.

"Oh I intend to tease you about it at every opportunity Mr Holmes, but privately!"

"You were the one who said I was gorgeous," smiled Sherlock, relieved the conversation had turned light-hearted.

They shared a smile, finishing their tea in silence. They could hear John moving around restlessly upstairs, no doubt curious as to how their conversation was progressing, but neither man felt inclined to call him down. Eventually Greg glanced at his watch and stood to leave.

"I've got a few cold cases that I'd like your opinion on. How about I come over tomorrow night to look them over and we get a curry in? Mates, hanging out together with a bit of work thrown in."

"Ok. Yes, work and curry both good. Mates… good."

John clomped downstairs when he heard the front door close to find Sherlock lounging in his chair near the fire looking altogether more relaxed. He worked his long fingers absently through his curls, loosening and disentangling as they moved across his head. Without a word John retrieved a bottle of single malt and a couple of glasses from the kitchen, handing one to his friend.

"Am I celebrating or commiserating?"

Sherlock gave a weak grin and took a drink.

"A little of both I think. He was very good about it."

"Good, good."

"John, I think I need a haircut."


End file.
